


Afternoon delight

by Builder



Series: Canon ships and all that jazz [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday Parties, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, This is like a dark comedy sickfic, Vomiting, barton fam, if that's a thing, very gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: You know you've failed as a dad when you forget your kid's birthday.  You fail even harder when you show up to the party swallowing down puke.





	Afternoon delight

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from tumblr, find me @builder051.
> 
> This is like a step up in gross from my usual baseline, so it may not be your thing...

Clint knows he’s going to throw up before he even gets in the house.  He hopes he can make it through the front door and down the hall and into the bathroom before everything goes to hell, but he knows it’s going to be a close call.  He’d woken up with an ache in his gut, finished the mission by muscle memory, and white-knuckled it through the flight home.  He sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he rolls up the driveway, wondering why the fuck there’s a clown car in his parking spot.

A bitter taste floods over his tongue as Clint realizes that not only does he have limited time before he blows, but he’s also done an epic dad fail.  He runs through his mental calendar to be sure, and, yep.  He sucks.  It’s Lila’s birthday.

What kind of idiot forgets something like that?  She’s turning seven.  It’s a big deal.

Clint hiccups and presses his fist to his mouth to keep down the other big deal.  “Fuck,” Clint mutters under his breath.  He swallows hard and almost gags on the bile swimming around his back teeth.  “Two minutes.  Give it two fucking minutes.  You owe her that.”

The pep talk gets him out of the car on shaky legs.  He leaves his luggage in the backseat to deal with later, and he trudges up the gravel path to the front door, resisting the urge to hunch over.  “Ok.  Ok, you got this.”

The house smells like frosting, and it’s enough to send Clint’s hand back over his mouth as he opens the door.  It takes all of his willpower to squeeze the convulsions out of his throat and slap a grin on his face.  Little kids who have overindulged in cake and moon bounces barf at birthday parties.  Dads just home from business trips…not so much.

Speaking of which…  “Daddy!”  Lila shoots out of her chair at the kitchen table, almost upending the person in the curly red wig and rubber nose who’s painting her face with a suitably princessy design.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” Clint says with as much gusto as he can manage.  He intercepts her hug and redirects it around to his hip to save the pressure on his stomach.  “Happy birthday, baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Daddy.  I’m  _seven_.”

“Yeah, seven,” Clint echoes lamely.  “That’s pretty big.”  He pats his daughter’s head.  A hiccup rises and sends a burst of sourness into his mouth.  Clint covers it by clearing his throat and gently pushing Lila back toward the table.  “Why don’t you let, uh, Pennywise there finish your makeup.”  Lila gives him a glare that’s nothing short of adorable, though Clint really couldn’t care less at the momen.  “I mean, face paint.”  He’s going to hiccup again, and he doesn’t trust this one to be dry.

“I gotta, uh, get my bags,” Clint mutters to nobody.

“Cooper, why don’t you give your dad some help?”  Laura gestures with the ice cream scoop in her hand.  Clint blinks, and the rest of the room comes into focus.  He wonders how he missed it, the 5 or so little princesses around the table munching cake, his wife acting as dessert waitress, and his son in the corner playing Nintendo DS.

Clint’s stomach cramps, and a trickle of sweat runs down from his hairline.  The hiccup cuts his train of thought, and it’s not just air coming up his throat.  “You know, nevermind,” he chokes without moving his lips.

He bolts down the hall.  Clint longs for the privacy of the ensuite in the master bedroom, but he knows he won’t get that far.  He’s lucky to make it to the guest bathroom, and he only has enough time to fling himself through the door before a geyser of vomit sprays over the floor and the cabinets under the sink.

“Fuck,” Clint coughs, probably louder than he should with a houseful of kids.  But he’s a grown man losing his guts all over the bathroom floor, so there’s not that much further to fall.  Another wave is coming, and Clint bends over the sink.  His spine arches as he heaves, and vertigo turns the room sideways and upside down.  It’s only his one-handed grip on the faucet that keeps him tethered.

“Clint?”  Footsteps approach from the hall.  “Oh my god.”  Laura comes up behind him and puts her hand on Clint’s back before she realizes they’re both standing in barf.  Clint hears her pick up her foot and put it back down.

He heaves hard again, acid burning his sinuses as it forces its way out of his nose and mouth.  He groans involuntarily, and Laura whispers, “Oh, honey.”

“Don’t—” Clint breathes, cutting himself off with a hiccup.  “Just…go be with the kids.”

“They’re ok.  They’re supervised.”

“Yeah, by a…by a fucking clown.”  Clint hiccups again, then gags up a weak stream of bile.

“Hey, I paid for a background check.  I’m not worried about them,” Laura says with a chuckle.  “You, on the other hand…”  She shakes her head.

Clint wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, though he knows it’s futile.  The next retch is practically sitting on his tongue, just waiting for him to get comfortable before it sneaks up and sends him down again.  “Eh, I’m ok.”  It’s a boldfaced lie, and the squeaky hiccup that comes out with the words definitely doesn’t help.  But what else is he supposed to say?

“Tell me again in about 2 hours, and maybe I’ll believe you,” Laura says.  She nudges Clint’s hand off the faucet and fills a paper cup with water, avoiding the sick pooling around the bottom of the basin.  “Here.”

“Thanks, hon,” Clint breathes.  He swills out his mouth, trying not to let the taste of the clean tap water bring on another fit.  “I’m…really sorry about this.”

Laura gives him a sideways smile, though concern holds her eyes wide.  “Your timing kind of sucks, but it’s not your fault.  And I’m good at staying on my toes.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  Clint barely gets the words out before he hiccups again and dry heaves.

“You’d be in a bigger mess, that’s for sure.”  Laura laughs.  “Though this thing you’ve created in here kind of takes the cake.”

Clint retches painfully.  “Oh, do not talk to me about fucking cake.”


End file.
